


I heard cowbirds call us home

by atlanticalien



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Drabble Collection, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Mild Sexual Content, Phone Sex, Pre-Canon, just a pinch of femdom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:22:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 8,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26181850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlanticalien/pseuds/atlanticalien
Summary: Series of McWexler drabbles/oneshots, aka "every idea I'd like to put in comic format but drawing is hard" (except writing is also hard, I can't win here). Largely pre-canon, maybe some in-canon/BrBa timeline and who knows, maybe some post-canon too! OoooOooTitle: Cowbirds - Throwing Muses
Relationships: Jimmy McGill | Saul Goodman/Kim Wexler
Comments: 55
Kudos: 99





	1. Childhood

They had spent the evening sucking down Shiner Bock and talking until dawn had threatened to break through the blinds of his shitty Beachcomber condo - or rather, she had talked and he had listened.

She talked, and talked, and talked: _Red Cloud, Mom, Dad, no Dad, step-dad, money or food, no money, no food, taking care of her, never being taken care of, leaving, alone, Albuquerque, UNM, HHM, you._

As he listened, and listened, and listened, he felt a growing tightness in his chest but said nothing, knowing that if he interrupted she'd never broach the subject again. So he had sat there, lips pressed and jaw clenched. The beer turned warm in his tight grip.

* * *

Later, crammed into the much-too-hard and much-too-small bed, he takes a moment to feel the warmth of her back pressed against him, the weight of her head resting on his arm, the softness of her upper arm in his hand. He looks at the way his fingers curl around her flesh and then squeezes, as lightly as he can, just enough to make sure.

_She's real. She's here. She's warm. She's safe._

_Real. Warm. Safe._

_Safe._

* * *

_Winter morning. Three blankets. Passed out on the couch. Get the bus today. Second period. Hunger pangs. No money. Barter for a bag of chips._

_Afternoon. Field trip. No slip. Stay behind. Snowing. Walk home. Vomit in the tub. Vodka bottle in the medicine cabinet._

_Empty. Close the cabinet. Dirty mirror. My reflection. Long blonde hair--_

* * *

He wakes with a start, heart hammering. He exhales slowly as he comes back, gradually registering the pins and needles in his arm under her head.

He shifts slightly and flexes his wrist, willing the sensation to come back but trying desperately not to wake her. 

As his pulse settles, he takes a deep breath and exhales again - a little faster this time, his breath rippling through her blonde locks. She's otherwise completely still.

She feels both impossibly small and impossibly infinite. He strokes the flesh of her upper arm and waits for sleep to take him again.


	2. Meeting

There's a chill in the corridors as she trudges through the basement of HHM, early but not so bright. She has to stifle a yawn as she tries to convince herself she can make it through the next nine hours, having stayed up all night hunched over a textbook, poised with highlighter in hand. Maybe she had fallen asleep at some point, she wasn't quite so sure anymore.

The distant sound of a man's voice wades through her syrupy consciousness; she stops in her tracks upon realizing who the voice belongs to. 

_What the hell's Mr McGill_ _doing in the mailroom at_ \- she checks her watch - _seven a.m.?,_ she thinks. She catches her reflection in the darkened glass of an unused conference room, wincing at the bags under her eyes. She makes a weak attempt to smooth down her hair and flashes a practice _Good morning, Mr McGill!_ smile at herself. Her weary reflection grimaces in response. _Ugh._

As she draws closer, the low drone of his voice becomes clearer and she can make out snippets: _You'll report to_ and _last of the month_ and _discovery_ and _office etiquette_ . A few pointed _Don't_ s come through, clearer than the rest.

She slows her pace, frowning as she tries to work this through. _Okay, new guy in the mailroom_. _What the hell is a_ senior partner _doing inducting a_ mail boy _? The guy has his name on the building. Has he ever been down here before?_

It's then that she hears another voice: gruffer, more gravelly but more animated. She can't make out what he says but it's punctuated with a bark of a laugh. She thinks she hears an impatient sigh in response.

She nears the corner of the mailroom and peeks around it, letting the banks of idling printers and copiers slowly slide into view. _Business as usual_ \- then she sees him.

He leans against a table, legs crossed at the ankles, casual as anything. She takes in the checkered short-sleeved shirt and gaudy paisley-patterned tie, the hairy forearms, the chunky watch, the floppy hair, the lopsided smile. Mr McGill has his back to her, still rambling about _sick pay_ and _HR_ and _business hours._ The mail boy looks at Mr McGill like they're… friends? No, that’s not it. Either way, he’s clearly not taking this very seriously. Or maybe he is, but he just can’t make it look that way.

Kim scoffs inwardly. _Guy won't last a week._

 _Shit._ She’s caught his eye and she feels a hot wave of embarrassment flood her, realising he's caught her sleepily gawking from the doorway, still half-hidden. But he doesn't seem to mind; his eyes narrow and the corners lift as his smile widens, coyly tilting his head to one side.

Kim is suddenly wide awake. Thankfully Mr McGill doesn't seem to have noticed his distracted protegé, his voice fading to a low drone once more as clear blue eyes lock with hers.


	3. First time

_ Firebrand, take it / Lying around naked _

She shoves him over the threshold of his own condo, kicking the door shut behind her. He stumbles backwards, trying to kick his shoes off as she pushes into his mouth, her hands still pressing insistently on his chest. It’s only when the backs of his knees hit the edge of the mattress, accompanied by a sharp surge of pain, that it finally hits him:  _ This is real. This is really happening. _

_ I think God dripped you out of a sunbeam / Only God dragged you out of a tree, with me _

She slams him down against the mattress so hard it recoils and he bounces a little. He gasps but is cut off by her mouth hungrily devouring his own, almost choking on the taste of her. She pulls away to catch her breath but tugs at his bottom lip as she does so - _ I’m not done.  _

_ I pulled you out of a snow bank / I think you grew me out of the dirt _

She’s so good, so tight, so in control that he can’t help but whimper and beg as he thrashes under her, needing whatever she had to give. Somewhere in the back of his mind he hears the mocking tones of his ex-wife:  _ you wanna know why I slept with Chet? He fucks like a real man. You’re too goddamn soft and needy.  _

The memory is mercifully drowned out by the sound of his own high-pitched, keening whine as Kim bites and sucks at the tender flesh of his exposed neck. He throbs painfully as he realizes she’s almost certainly left a mark, one his shirt collar will struggle to cover tomorrow.  _ Yes. Mark me. Claim me. Make everyone see. Make me yours.  _ His head is swimming and his face is hot as the dam breaks and his thoughts tumble from his mouth unfiltered, gasped out in between every desperate roll of his hips against hers:  _ Do whatever you want to me. Do everything to me. Please. Please. Please. _

_ I heard you pulled me out of a church / To worship You, worship You _

Afterwards, once he’d slowly drifted back down to Earth and screwed up his empty pack of cigarettes, he props himself up on the pillow with one hand and runs a finger down her cheek with the other. She grumbles and a crease appears in her sweaty brow. She doesn’t bother to open her eyes as she says:

“I’m not up for round two, Jimmy, I’m tired. Gonna be real busy tomorrow.”

He tells the truth. “I’m not asking you to.”

Her voice is low and thick as sleep starts to take over. “Then what are you doing?”

He grins into his hand, his voice barely above a whisper:

_ “Saying thanks.” _


	4. Breakup

It wasn’t a breakup. You have to be in a relationship to break up, right? That was what he had to keep reminding himself of in the months that followed.

“Don’t get me wrong, it’s fun,” she had started, wiping her mouth on a paper napkin, the neon lights of the Dog House glowing behind her. “I have a lot of fun with you, and I love being _friends_ with you…”

The watery beer and half-digested cheese dog in his stomach started to churn; he did his best to ignore it.

“...But you know I’ve got the bar coming up, and I just need to-- I just need to focus.”

“So… I’m a distraction? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Well, when you put it that way... Look,” she pushed the paper carton away with a sigh, half-eaten chili dog still inside. “All I’m saying is… what’s the play here, in the long term?”  
  
“Long term?”

She fixed her eyes on him, their blueness, visible even in the low light, suddenly chilling him to the bone.  
  
“I’ve got plans, Jimmy. You can be a part of them or not, but that’s your decision to make.”

He scoffed, the heat in his face rising. He tried to keep his voice even as he said:

“So, _what_? We have to make a goddamn five-year plan for our relationshi--”

She cut him off. “Are we _in_ a relationship?”  
  
He froze, brow furrowed and mouth agape: “ _What?_ ”

She sat back and pursed her lips. 

“That’s the thing, Jimmy. Are we _in_ a relationship, or are we just... work pals who just happen to screw from time to time?” 

The next words seemed to hang on her lips for an eternity until she finally released them: 

_“Be honest. Can you actually see us being together?”_

A thousand different versions of what he could say ran through his mind simultaneously, but none came to the forefront. He snapped his jaw shut and stared at her.  
  
Eventually, he stood up, screwing his own carton into a tight ball.

“Fine. We’ll play it your way, then.” 

He fought down the urge to say something acidic and biting, something that would hurt her in retaliation; he contented himself with throwing the screwed-up carton into the trash can with more force than necessary as he left. 

* * *

It wasn’t a breakup. Then why did it feel like one? He’d been down that road before. Girls who’d slapped him so hard he saw stars. Girls who’d screamed at him and called him an almighty asshole in public, mascara running in thick black streaks down their faces. Not one, but _two_ divorces. 

Yet here he is, thirty-two and all cut up over someone who never even saw him as...

He exhales sharply, blowing smoke further over the edge of the balcony and into the night air. Behind him the girl from the bar (she’d told him her name but it was long lost to him now) snores gently in his hard, shitty bed. He turns to look at her. Her limbs are tangled in his damp sheets, her face pressed open-mouthed into the pillow. _Her_ pillow. _Not_ her pillow.

He flicks his half-smoked cigarette down into the darkness below and turns back inside, dreading work the next day.


	5. Birthday

November 12, 2008 

The wind sweeps in from the desert, whipping across the highway and whistling in his ears. He hates how he seems to feel it more on his scalp all the time.

Saul paces back and forth by the Cadillac, stopping once or twice to look at his reflection and attempt to coax his combover back into place. It’s for nobody’s benefit - he’s only seen two trucks pass in the last hour - but it makes him feel a little better.

He pulls back his sleeve to glance at his watch. 2:59. Nearly time. He adjusts his tie - again, for nobody’s benefit - and counts down the seconds, mouthing them silently.

10.

9.

8.

7.

6.

5.

4.

Three.

Two.

_One._

3:00 p.m.

He whips around and stares at the payphone, willing it to ring. He struggles to fight down the panic rising in his throat as the seconds continue to pass. _Oh no._ _Not this year. Something’s happened. Something--_

**_BBRRRRIIIINNNGGG!_ **

Saul snatches the handset with such force he’s thankful that it stays attached. He holds his breath as he listens to the crackling of the phone line, barely audible over the howling wind. 

_Crck. Ksshht. Kssh._

“Hey.”

He lets his held breath out all at once, grin spreading across his face. It feels so good to smile like this, like he means it. He does mean it.

“Hey.” He swallows, and says:  
  
“It’s good to hear you.”

A tinny laugh echoes down the line from hundreds (thousands?) of miles away. 

“You say that _every_ year.”

“Well, it’s _true_ every year!”

* * *

They stop talking only when the sun slips past the horizon and the cold makes him draw his suit jacket tighter around him. It’s as they say their goodbyes that his voice finally abandons him, leaving him clutching the payphone and racked with silent, heaving sobs as she says:

_“Happy birthday, Jimmy.”_


	6. Reunion

The soft tap at the door sends a violent jolt through her, her heart and stomach seeming to lurch out of place and back again in an instant. She feels lightheaded, fuelled for the last 48 hours by nicotine and coffee alone, and feels weightless as she moves towards the front door before wrenching it open.

She doesn’t ask about the look in his eyes - exhaustion tinged with horror tinged with relief - or the way his lips are so chapped and split she can’t help but wince. 

She doesn’t ask about the stupid patriotic t-shirt, the white only heightening the painful redness of his skin.

She doesn’t ask about the cheap flip-flops, or the bag at his feet that she doesn’t recognize as his.

He opens and closes his mouth, but shakes his head at realising nothing is going to come out. The tears threatening to spill from his eyes finally do so as he breaks into a helpless smile. _Honey, I’m home!_

He finally steps over the threshold and falls into her, clasping her tightly. She’s suddenly keenly aware of the space she occupies, the shape of herself as he drapes his frame over her own. She starts to feel her own pulse again, no longer the ghost that’s been haunting the apartment for two days.

She can feel the heat radiating from his skin, his neck almost painfully hot against her cheek. She winds her arms across his back, and there too she finds it makes its way through the thin cotton of his shirt, still disconcertingly warm to the touch. He hisses in pain at the pressure so she loosens her grip, trying to be content with embracing the air around him instead.

His back starts to heave beneath her almost-touch, wetness and warmth soaking into her shoulder.

“Kim... Kim...” Even muffled by her sweater, she can tell that his voice has been reduced to practically nothing - a croaky, mournful peep.

Her vision blurs. She can finally feel how tight he’s holding her when she tries to take in a deep breath and struggles to get enough air.

“You’re okay, Jimmy,” she half-whispers, trying to swallow back her tears as best she could, for fear they'd never stop if she let them.

She tries again, her voice a little stronger this time: “You’re okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "we join them past their tearful reunion" - the actual 5x09 script!!! why would you deny me this!!!


	7. Chapstick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> continued from last chapter! these screwy horny 40 year old kids

It’s later, post-oatmeal bath, when he’s looking a-little-less-but-still-extremely-worse for wear, that Kim rummages in her purse and pulls out the little pink tube. 

The label is long faded from having rubbed off on everything else she carries around, but the little strawberries it’s adorned with are still visible.

“Strawberry,” she sighs. She turns to him: “You like strawberry, right?”

He blinks several times and shrugs. “I guess.” 

She pads across the bedroom floor towards him, holding the chapstick in front of her. He moves to grab it but she’s too quick, yanking it out of range.

“ _Kim_ ,” he says, with as much force as his strained voice can muster. “You’ve done enough. At least let me do this myself.”  
  
She shakes her head, still unsmiling but there’s mischief in her eyes, the lines in her forehead softening. She squares up to him, gaze flicking between his eyes and those sore, chapped lips. 

“Nuh-uh.”

She uncaps the chapstick with a ‘ _pop!’_ and reaches out to hold his jaw in place, careful to apply just enough pressure to keep him still but not irritate his skin too much.

“Just… let me do this for you,” she whispers as she leans in.

She moves the slick head of the chapstick over the rough terrain of his bottom lip, then the top, then back again, building up a thick, glossy layer. She realises slightly too late that it’s tinted, leaving an increasingly rosy trail as it goes around and around. She smirks inwardly - he doesn’t need to know. 

He absent-mindedly flicks his tongue out to lick his upper lip.

“Don’t lick it off, how’s it supposed to work if you eat it?”

“Sorry,” he croaks. “Tastes good.”

She tuts softly and sets to work again, building up the layer of gloss once more before leaning back to admire her work. She examines his face, still in her grasp, before becoming overwhelmed with the urge to taste.

She pulls him forward and presses her lips against his, feeling the sweet slick of the chapstick combined with the heat of his mouth. She tilts her head to deepen the kiss and runs her tongue over his teeth, feeling his pulse quicken in her palm. He exhales sharply through his nose and groans shakily into her, the vibration travelling through her, down to her feet and into the ground.

She pulls away and licks her lips - she tastes mostly sugar, notes of artificial fruit flavor and a hint of salt. 

She pulls away, aware of the heat building inside of her. She’ll have to wait until she’s sure she won’t hurt him. _But not too long._


	8. Cinnamon

“Goddammit. Shit.”

He looks down helplessly at the white dripping down his new woven navy tie. He holds his hands in midair, one still holding the offending cinnamon bun (still dripping onto the floor) and the other sullied with yet more sticky frosting.

“I’ll get it,” she says, leaning across the table to dab at the frosting with a paper napkin. She manages to get most of it, but it leaves a stain, a light blue blob against a dark blue backdrop.

“Thanks,” he mutters sheepishly, casting an eye around to see if anyone is bearing witness to a full-grown man being mothered like this. Satisfied that nobody on this fine Tuesday morning seems to care, he places the bun on its paper bag plate and starts to lick the residual frosting from between his fingers. 

“Ew, _gross_.” She tosses another napkin at him. “Use that, you animal.”

“What, and waste any more of it than I already have? You buy these things for the frosting, the bun’s just a _vehicle_.” 

She smiles and stirs her coffee _(“Not hungry,” she’d said, wrinkling her nose)_ , appearing to lose herself in the motion of it for a moment before tapping the plastic stirrer on the side and looking at him again, brow furrowed.

“Sure you don’t want to go home and change? You’ve got court this afternoon.”

“Kim,” he says, sucking the last of the frosting from his ring finger with a flourish. “ _T_ _rust_ _me_ , nobody’s gonna notice a little frosting stain.”

Her gaze flicks down to the white-ish stain and back up again. She smirks. “If they think it’s that.”

He grimaces in an overly exaggerated way. “ _Shut up._ ”

“Seriously though, you’re not exactly going to inspire confidence in anyone you're defending if you show up like that. Pays to be professional.” She brings the cup to her lips and sips, ever graceful. “Just saying.”

He grimaces again, but there's less humor in it this time. “Yeah, well… all’s I’m saying is that they can’t even pay to fix the water damage in that courthouse. Have you seen the ceilings? Think they’re cultivating several new species of fungus up there.”

She swallows, giving a brief hum of agreement. “That’s true.” 

With the word _professional_ still hanging over his head like a raincloud, he looks around once more and decides to switch gears. “Hey, if you weren’t a lawyer… where do you think you’d be working, right now?”

She looks at him blankly, processing the shift in the conversation. “Uh.”

She places the cup back on the table and shrugs. “Uh… well. The Hinky Dinky, I guess. You know that.”

He deflates a little. “Right, right… but let’s say you could do any _thing_ and work any _where._ ”

She laughs. “What are you, my guidance counsellor? Where’s this coming from?”

He plays it off, hand hovering over the bun again before thinking better of it. “Just curious, that’s all.” He raises his eyebrows higher, silently prompting an answer.

“Yeah, well,” she picks up the cup again, swirling its contents. She’s silent, watching the foam on top swirl and settle. Eventually she sucks in air through her teeth and shrugs again. 

“Truth is, Jimmy... I don’t know. What’d _you_ be doing?”

He breaks into a grin and spreads his arms wide.

“I’d be _here,_ obviously!” 

“Here. At Cinnabon.”

“Uh, _yeah!_ Getting to smell that cinnamon-y goodness all day, licking frosting off the beaters when nobody’s looking… providing the good folks of Albuquerque with their RDA of sugar and carbs in one sitting. Making them happy, y’know? Making a _difference_.” 

“And you don’t think you’re making a difference now?”

He gives her a weary look before sinking his teeth into the bun again. _“I geff,”_ he says through a mouthful of bread, spice and sugar.

Kim chuckles and tilts her head to one side, resting her head in her hand. There’s warm, genuine affection in her voice as she says:

“Jimmy.”

_“Mff?”_

“You’ve got frosting on your sleeve.”

“ _'F_ _it. Godda’it."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> realise I'm starting to stretch the definition of drabble here so as apology have another cinnabon fic (that's way better), which served as indirect inspiration for this one: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22290004
> 
> I love writing dialogue for these two ugh!!!!


	9. List

Midnight finds her in the one office with the light still on, slumped back in her chair and muttering into a tape recorder. Her shoes - kicked off hours earlier - sit beneath the desk along with her purse, which contains her cellphone, which contains several messages she was making a point of not listening to. Her voice is starting to strain as she dictates Letter Number God-Knows-What of the day:

“I hope this letter finds you well. Period. On behalf of Hamlin Hamlin McGill I am writing to… No, scratch that. Disregard. Body of the letter is as follows: Dear Mr Wachsberger, new paragraph, I am writing to you on behalf of Hamlin Hamlin… McGill…”

She pauses the tape and sets the recorder down on her desk before staring blankly at her notes, the meaning of the scrawled shorthand lost on her.

She flips to the back of her legal pad until she finds a blank page and folds it over, neatly tucking the rest of the pages underneath. This isn’t work but feels somehow that much more vital, some of her energy returning as she picks up her fountain pen.

She stares at the blank page in front of her. Yellow, ruled. Orderly. Perfect for this.

She writes _PROS_ at the top left corner, and underlines it.

She writes _CONS_ at the top right corner, and underlines it.

She swiftly draws a line between the two, creating two columns on the page.

She pauses, tapping her pen in thought, before writing under _PROS_ :

_Funny._

_Kind._

_Sensitive._

_Sweet._

_Fun to be around._

She pauses again and chews the inside of her cheek in thought before continuing:

_Good in bed._

_Cares about me._

She ponders the list for a while before inhaling deeply and moving to the _CONS_ column. Her hand starts writing faster:

_Immature._

_Irrational._

_Irresponsible._

_Cuts corners._

_Short-sighted._

_Criminal past - reformed?_

_Self-centered_ (Her hand hovers for a beat before scrawling _(can be)_ next to it)

_Thinks ends justify the means._

_Gets into trouble - have to deal w/ consequences._

She puts down her pen and reads the two lists, over and over, eyes raking up and down the page until she can practically see the words burned into her eyelids when she blinks.

Eventually, she picks the pen up again and writes just one word at the bottom of the page, in between the two lists, in large capital letters. She circles it once for emphasis:

**_FUTURE?_ **

Her eyes glance over the page one last time before she flips back to the front of the pad. _Just finish this letter and go get some sleep_ , she thinks as she picks up the tape recorder once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you could read this as pre-canon or in-canon, during the Davis & Main debacle; I have the feeling that wasn't the first time something he's done put Kim in the doghouse at HHM, oops


	10. Diner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/10/20 - now with illustrations (by me)!

There’s a pleasant Saturday morning buzz in the diner, the bright New Mexico sun shining in through the windows, the sky outside a rich, unfettered blue. The smell of fresh coffee and frying bacon hangs in the air, strong but not unpleasant. There’s laughter and the _clink_ of forks on plates as families and couples sit breakfasting and brunching and making plans about what to do with the weekend laid out ahead of them.

At one booth at the far end, the conversation turns to marriage.

“You’re making it sound like I’ve done something wrong,” he says, arm stretched over the back of the booth, fingers idly fiddling with a hole in the leather.

“Sorry,” she replies, bringing a forkful of chocolate chip pancake to her mouth. “I’m just surprised, is all. Thirty two is pretty young to have been divorced twice.” 

“Yeah, well…” he turns to look out the window, squinting against the light. “I was young and stupid the first time.” 

A beat. “...And the second time, actually.”

She watches him for a moment as she chews, taking in the shape of his profile and the way the light frames his bangs, the edges turning reddish in the sunlight. 

At his silence, she brings her cup of coffee to her lips and watches him over the rim, waiting for him to elaborate. Which, naturally, he does.

“We’d just turned eighteen and it seemed like a great idea, right? We could do it totally legit, nothing was stopping us from going down to city hall and signing some papers. Only I talked her into - talked _myself_ into - driving out west to some run-down chapel way out in the boonies and doing it there. After that, we were going to keep driving and start a whole new life. I really wanted that at the time.” 

He takes a pause and shifts, turning away from the harsh light and folding his arms on the table. His eyes drift down to her pancakes as he says, mostly to himself:

“Can’t remember why.”

“So, how’d it end?” Kim says, cradling her cup in both hands. Her hair’s in short braids today, and one hangs lower than the other as she tilts her head in intrigue.

He shrugs.

“Like you’d imagine. Things don’t work out that way. We were gone a week and a half and then came back. Went our separate ways and signed the divorce papers a couple of months later. Couldn’t get an annulment since the marriage was legally binding.” 

His eyes meet hers briefly as he lets the implication of that sink in.

Then he inhales and carries on. “Mom was pretty mad but she was happy just to see me come home, I think. You gonna finish those?”

She pushes the plate of half-eaten pancakes over to him with a smile.

“The second time,” he says, cutting through the stack with the side of his fork, “the second time was a couple of years later. Brenda. We had a lot of fun together, but you know.” He pops a forkful into his mouth and talks around it, his cheek bulging. “That’s not everything.”

Kim gives a short huff of laughter. “Guess not.”

“All we did-” he swallows quickly before continuing: “-all we did was get drunk and high and… screw, basically. Then the arguments started. And the cheating. Guess I thought marriage might fix things. We actually went to city hall, that time. Still no honeymoon, though.” 

A pause as he regards the syrup dripping from his fork. “Unless you count doing it in the backseat parked behind Wrigley Field as a honeymoon.”

Kim smirks and rests her head on her hand. “Some might.”

“Anyway… it lasted a few months, but the old problems didn’t go away. They got worse, actually. Bigger arguments, no money, then she cheated on me with…” He gestures with his fork as he averts her gaze, wincing at the memory. “...Well, you know how _that_ story goes.”

“Sure do.”

“So,” he jabs his fork into the last piece of pancake for emphasis. “There you go. Two marriages, two divorces, one desecration of a Chicago landmark.” He pops the last piece into his mouth and drops the fork with a clatter onto the now-empty plate. He sits back and drapes his arm over the back of the booth once more, satisfied.

There’s a pause as Kim drains the last of her coffee. Jimmy turns away from the window and instead watches the people sat on stools near the grill, chewing his bottom lip in thought.

Kim eventually breaks the silence.

“...Would you do it again?”

He snaps back to her, eyes wide. She can practically see the gears turning. 

“What, the Wrigley Park thing? Sure, but the backseat gets pretty uncomfort--”

“No, idiot,” she says warmly, “getting married. Would you do it again?”

He tries to read her expression, brow furrowed in thought. He speaks slowly, choosing his next words carefully:

“Sure I would. But… I’d have to do it right this time. No rushing into it, get it all planned out.”

He turns his gaze to the window again, bathing himself in light, losing himself in the fantasy. He’s no longer squinting, his eyes shining crystal blue as they reflect the world outside.

“In a nice church… or maybe outdoors somewhere. And people, lots of people. I’d fly Mom out here, have her there.”

“Chuck, too?”

“Yeah, if he wasn’t too busy.”

“Come on, Jimmy. He wouldn’t miss it for the world, provided you actually told him about it.”

“I guess. Oh, and a big reception too. Free bar. A real swing band, and a _huge_ cake. One of those big five-tiered suckers, you know? The kind you look at like, _how the hell am I supposed to cut this?_ ”

Kim can’t help it; she laughs, covering her hand with her mouth.

Even if he’s not in on the joke, Jimmy can’t help but laugh too, looking at her. “What?”

“You’re just a big romantic, aren’t you?”

His reaction is delayed, but then his smile widens, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Yeah. I guess I am.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so young! so happy! it won't last :)))


	11. 1:30 AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gotta earn that M rating once every ten chapters! the phone sex is canon anyway

“Just wanted to talk.”

“At 1:30 in the morning,” she grumbles, fumbling for the lamp on her nightstand. “Yeah, I feel like you may have ulterior motives here.” 

A pause, then a crackly sigh. “All right. You got me. I can’t sleep, and I need a little… assistance.”

Her voice remains low and thick with sleep, but she smiles as she says: “Most guys would just watch porn, you know.”

“ _Most guys_ can afford a TV.”

She settles back into her pillow. “Okay, fine. Paint me a picture.”

She can practically see his brow furrow on the other end of the line. “Paint you a picture.”

She makes a beckoning gesture with her hand, even though he can’t see. “Yeah, come on. What are you wearing?”

“Kim, I know you’re tired but believe it or not, you’re not exactly talking to Fabio here.”

“I know. Make with the details.”

“T-shirt and boxers. What are _you-”_

“Which boxers?”, she interrupts.

Another sigh, louder and more impatient. “Those _blue ones_ you used to like borrowing so much. Can we get to-”

“The _blue ones_ , huh? Wow. You need new underwear.”

“Kim, _please.”_

She laughs throatily. “Okay.” She stretches her other arm overhead, brushing the headboard with her fingertips before tucking it behind her head.

“I have had... a bit of a fantasy recently.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Shh. So you know my new office? The one that’s not a store cupboard?”

“Considering I’m talking to you from _my_ office? The one that’s also my bedroom? The one that’s in a nail salon? Yeah. I’m aware.”

“Oof. The bitterness is a real turn-off. Bye.”

He panics. “ _No no no,_ kidding, just kidding!”

She smirks. “Well... I was thinking… what if you came in while I was working…”

“And I close the door?”

“Don't interrupt. And no, leave the door open.” She listens to his breathing quicken. “You leave it open, and you’re trying to distract me, get me away from my work. You start rubbing my shoulders, my neck… I’m not paying any attention so you lean down and start whispering in my ear… but I’m still totally focussed, I’ve got this big deadline coming up-”

He huffs. “I’m not getting a lot out of this.”

“ _Shut up_. Anyway, eventually I swivel around in my chair and look you dead in the eye and tell you you’re either gonna have to wait… or…”

“Or…?”, he whispers breathily, barely audible over the phone. 

She closes her eyes, letting her imagination take over. 

“What if… what if you were under my desk? What if… you had your face pressed right up against me, in that tight, _tight_ space while I was working? What _if_ ... someone came in? What if, say, _Howard_ came in? And you had to stay still, _so still,_ barely able to breathe? What if he _found_ you like that, Jimmy?”

His ragged breaths become punctuated with helpless whimpers as they crackle down the line. She bites her lip and presses her legs together under the covers.

“You’re not about to _come_ , are you? Just from that? You _are_ desperate.”

“God, please Kim, please, please…”

“No no, not yet.”

“Please-”

“Gotta know you really want it.”

“ _PleasepleaselemmecomeI’llbegoodtoyouIswear-”_

She rolls her head into the phone, sighing as she slips a hand beneath the covers.

“Oh, fine. You’ve earned it. Let me hear you.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath - so clear and loud she can practically feel it next to her ear - followed by a high-pitched, urgent _Kim_ , which in turn gives way to a long, low groan. Then silence.

“You good?” Kim asks, trying to keep her own breathing under control.

She hears him clear his throat and suck in air through his teeth. 

“Yeah. Thanks. Think, uh... think, uhh… think I can get some shut-eye now.” 

He hesitates for a beat before chancing it: “Unless you want to let me hear you-”

She cuts him off. “Night, Jimmy.” 

She quickly snaps the phone shut with one hand as the other picks up the pace, grinning as her mind replays the sound of her own name gasped down a phone line.


	12. 10:30 PM

She’d waited long enough. Francesca hoists her purse onto her shoulder and makes her way over to the heavy wooden door of Saul’s office - she raps at the door once, twice. 

“Saul.”

No response.

She tries again, knocking louder.

_“Saul.”_

No response.

She leans into the door, making sure he can hear her.

“Saul, I’m _leaving.”_

She presses her ear to the door and, satisfied he's not on the phone or… otherwise preoccupied, grits her teeth and swings the door open.

_“I said-”_

She stops at seeing him slumped on his desk, his usually carefully-hidden bald spot fully visible as he lays face down on his crossed arms. His jacket and tie are thrown haphazardly over the back of his chair and an empty bottle of scotch takes center stage in front of him on the desk.

He doesn’t acknowledge her presence. Knowing damn well he’s not asleep, Francesca gives him one more chance: 

“I said _I’m going._ ” She stresses the last two words to make sure the message filters through his consciousness.

His response is monotone and muffled, not bothering to raise his head from his arms.

“Yeah. Heard you.”

Francesca presses her lips together and shifts her weight from one foot to the other. 

“So you’re staying, I take it.”

Another muffled response. “Looks that way.”

She lowers her purse to the ground by the door and walks over to the desk. She takes in the sad, pathetic sight of him for a moment before gently shaking his shoulders.

“C’mon. Up.”

“No.”

“Up, up,” she insists, like a mother coaxing a child with what little remains of her patience.

He relents, as he always does, raising slowly to his feet with his head still bowed. He sways unsteadily, precariously. With a practiced hand, Francesca hoists one of his arms over her shoulder and places a hand on his waist to keep him from falling.

“Couch,” she instructs. He plods dutifully along with her, around the desk and to the other side of the room towards the couch.

Reaching it, she bends down slightly and releases his arm from around her shoulder, letting his weight fall ungracefully but comfortably onto the couch. His eyes are already pinched shut but he throws an arm over them to block out the remaining light. 

Francesca retrieves his suit jacket from the back of his chair and throws it across him like a blanket. She stands up straight, hands on hips, face full of that pity he hates so much.

“You sure you’re okay here?”

“Fine,” he mutters. Then, weaker and softer: “Thank you.”

Francesa turns toward the door when she feels him tug at her wrist. She looks down to see his upturned face, eyes watery and bloodshot.

His voice is weak and shaky - a far cry from his loud, obnoxious TV commercials.

“D’you miss her?”

Francesca nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I miss her.”

His focus wavers but he’s satisfied with the answer, even though it never changes. 

“Good. That’s good.” He lets go of her wrist and throws his arm back over his eyes, shifting down further under the makeshift blanket of his jacket.

Francesca studies him for a moment before walking back over to the door and retrieving her purse. She glances over to the couch one last time before turning out the light.

“Night, Jimmy.”


	13. Office Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last one was heavy so have something soft and sweet (also drunk jimmy is baby) (he's baby!!)

It takes a while to wrangle him into the cab, still the life of the party even when he’s barely able to stand. The rest of the mailroom guys stagger away in a line, arms around each others’ shoulders - one of them shouts something back towards them, echoing through the street. It’s barely discernible but he lets out a raucous laugh anyway, throwing his head back and letting out wispy clouds into the night air. 

She looks apologetically at the cab driver as he slumps from her grasp into the backseat, giggling as he slides over to make room.

Settled into the backseat, he turns to look at her as she fastens his seatbelt, letting his head loll on the headrest. 

“Thank you,” he half-whispers. There’s something child-like and shy about it, and it’s almost enough to make her forget about the filthy jokes he’d been telling only an hour previously.

She smiles, suddenly aware of her own tipsiness as everything shifts slightly. “You’re welcome,” she responds, conscious of how much more effort it takes to get her tongue and teeth around the words.

They ride in silence for a few minutes before he unclasps the seatbelt and awkwardly repositions himself so that he lies across the seat, knees tucked and head in her lap, tilted up to face her.

She chuckles. “That’s not safe, you know.”

“If we crash, then I’ll worry about it,” he slurs, so it comes out more like _ffwecrashthenullworrboutit._

He lets his eyes close and slowly reopens them, staring up at her. His words are still slurred but he speaks them slowly and deliberately as he says:

“You’re so beautiful. You know that, right?”

The drunkenness hits her like a wave again, mixed with something less easily recognised - a muggy heat in her brain, a loss of sensation in her hands and feet. The laugh in her throat sounds like it belongs to someone else.

“You don’t have to hit on me, you know.”

“No, I just...” she sees his face flush under the strips of light from passing streetlamps. He shifts in place. “...I just want you to know.” 

His voice is so low she can barely hear him over the hum of the engine and passing traffic. “You’re so beautiful. And smart. And strong. I wish they saw that. I wish they appreciated you. You’re perfect.” His watery eyes glisten with tears, shining as the strips of orange light continue to wash over him.

Her tipsy smile falters as she feels a burn at the back of her throat. She sighs and places a hand on his cheek, running her fingers through his bangs, gently stroking his temple. His eyes close at the contact and he sighs contentedly.

They stay like that until she jolts her knee to jostle him awake.

“C’mon,” she says. “I’ll take you inside. You’re in no condition to navigate stairs. Or keys.”

He grunts and lifts himself with great effort from her lap.

“Aye aye, cap’n,” he slurs. _Ayayca’n._


	14. Houndstooth (Birthday II)

“Sorry, I’m not great at wrapping stuff. Should’ve spent the extra five bucks, I guess.” 

He shifts from one foot to the other, eyes flicking between her face and the soft, floppy package in her hands. There are holes in the delicate tissue from where he’d manhandled it, pieces of something dark peeking through the lilac paper. Random pieces of tape scatter the surface, trying to hold it together. Kim turns it over in her hands for a moment before ripping it open, letting the paper fall to the floor as the blouse unfurls in her hands.

It’s… striking. A jagged houndstooth pattern, in alternating void black and electric blue, with a delicate scooped collar, gathered at the top. It’s nothing compared to his exuberant ties but it’s certainly flashier than what she’s used to - it would definitely stand out in her wardrobe as she thinks of the dark, flat, muted colours she usually wears. She doesn’t think she even _has_ anything with a pattern on it.

She hasn’t said anything for a minute, so he starts jabbering: 

“Saw it and thought, well, made me think of your eyes, you know? Like they’re not  _ this  _ blue, but they’re still blue and I thought it’d, uh… make ‘em stand out, you know?” 

He swallows and fumbles in his pocket. He sheepishly holds up a crumpled receipt.

“Kept it so you could take it back if it doesn’t fit right.” A pause, before he quietly adds: “Or if you want to trade it for something else.”

She closes her mouth - having just realised it had been open this whole time - and looks at him. He smiles nervously, eyes wide; she gathers that her reaction’s not quite what he anticipated.

“So, do you, uh, like it?”

She drapes the blouse over her forearm and throws her arms around his neck. She feels him breathe a sigh of relief as he places his hands on her back. 

“Happy birthday, Kim,” he says.

* * *

She does end up taking it back the next day; it’s a size too big. The cashier eyes the gift receipt.

“Not quite right?”

Kim smiles. “He was close.”

The cashier raises her eyebrows as she puts the new blouse into a bag. The corner of her mouth raises in a wry smile. 

“Boyfriend, huh? Early Valentine’s gift?”

“N--” 

Kim stops herself before the denial comes out of her mouth.  _ Who is this girl? Will I ever see her again? Does she give a shit about the weird not-quite-almost thing we’ve got going? _

Instead, she exhales and grins, releasing the tension in her shoulders.

“Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, just something nice u_u also I love that blouse


	15. Omelette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You good with cereal? Or you want me to try an omelette?" - 5x09

“Ugh, dammit.” She grunts as she scrapes the pan with a spatula, a gritty brown layer already forming on the bottom, threatening to burn and turn acrid. 

She hadn’t heard him get up from the stool, and jumps a little when she feels him at her back, breath ghosting her neck. He gently places one hand over hers, coaxing the spatula away from the pan, and uses the other hand to turn down the heat on the burner.

“You got the heat up too high,” he mutters. “They’ll just burn soon as you put ‘em in.” 

She scoffs. “Okay, Emeril. Why don’t you show me how it’s done?”

It’s a joke, but when she cranes her neck to look at him there’s no smile. He still has that distant, vacant look in his eyes - the one that’s been troubling her since yesterday - and he merely examines the half-raw, half-burnt eggs in the pan for a moment before turning the heat off entirely and carrying the whole thing over to the trashcan, methodically dumping it out and placing the pan in the sink. 

“Jimmy,” she sputters, taken aback. “I was just joking. It was a joke. Just sit down, I’ll get you some cereal or something.” 

“It’s fine,” he says over the hiss of the faucet, and there’s still that strange, thin tone that suggests nothing is fine, that everything is on a knife-edge and about to collapse at any moment. “I’ll make us both one. Gives me something to do.” 

He pats the pan dry with a paper towel before placing it back on the burner. He flicks open the carton of eggs before cracking one, two, three into a bowl. His movements are almost mechanical as he beats them and seasons with salt and pepper, occasionally hefting the fork to check the consistency. She walks slowly over to his side, cautiously watching him, eyes flicking between the bowl and his glazed stare.

He turns on the burner beneath the pan and slouches over to the fridge, Kim watching him still. He takes a stick of butter from the middle shelf and tucks a bag of shredded cheese under his arm before trudging back over to the stovetop, frowning at the packaging on the butter. 

He turns it over in his hands before unwrapping the end of the stick and placing it into the pan with a hiss, letting it melt for a moment before moving it all over the pan’s surface, coating it with a slick of golden butter. Instead of smoking like the cooking spray she’d put in earlier, the butter sits and froths, fizzing gently at the lower heat. He studies it for a moment before pouring in the eggs, which spread and fill the pan, wet and viscous but already turning opaque at the edges.

He turns to look at her, starting a little as if he’s just noticed her standing there. 

“Sit down. I’ll bring it to you.” 

She opens and closes her mouth but finds no will to fight. She retreats to the counter and hops up onto a stool, gaze still trained on his back. She watches the tension in it, his shoulders tensing and shifting as he shakes the pan and gently agitates the eggs with the spatula. He produces a plate from one of the cupboards and shimmies the omelette onto it, placing the pan back on the burner with a clatter.

He sets the plate down in front of her before fishing out a fork from a drawer, wrapping it in a napkin before proffering it to her. 

She looks quizzically between the fork, the plate and Jimmy. 

“Weren’t you going to make us both one?” 

“Turns out I’m not that hungry,” he says flatly. He gestures with the fork and nods at the plate. “Go on.”

She presses her lips together for a moment but then relents, gingerly taking the fork from his hand. The omelette is soft and yellow-brown and offers little resistance as she cuts into it with the side of the fork. She pops a forkful into her mouth: salty cheese and creamy butter and fluffy, peppery egg. 

She swallows, taking with it any guilt she had over relinquishing her duty as caregiver in order to eat something actually edible.

“It’s good,” she says finally. “Real good.”

He pours two mugs of coffee from the pot she’d brewed before her breakfast disaster, and sets one down in front of her. He’s still vacantly looking somewhere else - some indiscriminate spot on the counter near her elbow - but smiling. He looks more like himself, and she’s relieved.

“One of the first things in my repertoire,” he croaks, bringing his own mug to his lips. “Used to make ‘em for my mom a lot.”

“Mm,” she says over a second mouthful, bouncing the fork in her grasp in appreciation. “Remind me why we live on takeout again.”

He swallows down his coffee and sucks his teeth. “Think you’d get bored of omelettes and macaroni real fast.” 

“Fajitas, too.” She smirks into her own cup.

“Right.”

They both laugh, light and airy, the tension of yesterday starting to thaw and melt as warm sunlight streams in. 


	16. Failure

“Haven’t seen him since this morning,” Ernie shrugs before resuming stirring his coffee.

Everyone else in the break room is similarly absorbed, picking at nails and blandly staring up at the fluorescent lamps, having already been thoroughly grilled about The Mysterious Whereabouts of Jimmy McGill.

But Kim Wexler is nothing if not persistent.

“Have  _ all  _ the upper floors been done?” A collective affirmative hum.

“And  _ nobody’s  _ seen him.” A collective grunt.

Ernie stops and scratches the back of his neck. “Well…” 

She looks to him expectantly, throwing up her eyebrows.

“I did catch a glimpse of him on the way to the bathroom earlier... he had this envelope-”

_ Envelope.  _ “Oh, Christ.” She cuts him off and moves towards the door.

“Thanks, Ernie,” she calls over her shoulder before making a beeline for the nearest elevator.

"You're welcome," Ernie offers bemusedly to the empty doorway. 

* * *

She knows to look down before the elevator doors open. The trashcan lies on the ground, thoroughly beaten and dented, its plastic liner flapping sadly in the slight draft. She looks at it solemnly before righting it and pushing open the door to the parking garage. 

He sits with his back against the wall, the envelope laying on the ground at his feet. It’s intact but torn at the edges, its contents having been hastily stuffed back inside.

His face is obscured in darkness but she can hear the thickness in his voice.

“I fucked it up. Again.”

He punctuates it with a dry, bitter laugh. 

She moves over to him, the  _ clack  _ of her heels reverberating in the vast space, before smoothing down her skirt and sliding down the wall to sit at his side.

She lets the silence pass between them. Eventually he swallows. 

“This is hopeless. I did everything right this time. I was  _ sure _ . I was--”  His voice cracks. “I was _so_ _ damn sure _ .”

“Jimmy. Look at me.”

He stays still, long enough that she almost repeats herself before he finally turns to face her.

His expression was difficult to make out in profile, obscured by darkness, but in facing her he catches a sliver of the light cascading down from the ceiling and is suddenly laid bare before her - totally defeated, tear-streaked and exhausted.

Something cracks open inside her, some instinct, both tender and ferocious.

Her hands move as if automatically, grasping his face, fingers pulling tight on the skin. She fixes her eyes on him intently. 

“You’ll try again.” She keeps her voice low but speaks authoritatively, deliberately. 

He sags in her grasp. “I can’t,” he whispers. “I can’t do it, Kim.” 

Fresh tears roll down his cheeks and wet the edges of her palms.

She tips her head forward, almost touching her forehead to his.

“You  _ can.  _ You  _ will _ .” 

He sniffles, but has no response, no will to protest. She presses on. 

“You’ll go back there in six months and you’ll take it for the third time. And you’ll pass.” 

He remains tight-lipped but his eyes say it all:  _ and what if I don’t?  _

“If you don’t,” she continues, “You’ll go back in a year and take it again. You’ll take it again until you pass. There’s no limit to how many times you can take the bar in New Mexico, Jimmy. Be glad you don’t live in Vermont.”

He smiles weakly, relaxing into her grasp further. She feels a tug.

_ No,  _ she thinks,  _ That’s over.  _

She can’t help it. She closes the gap between them and kisses him - as she does, she feels fresh tears warm her skin once more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you ever think about how Saul Goodman is wholesale the creation of One Woman because boy i sure do


End file.
